“If I didn’t get ABBA, I was not going to make the movie.” — P.J. Hogan, Director of Muriel’s Wedding
My high school graduation gift from my parents was a locket bearing the inscription “You’re Terrible, Muriel.” It was seemingly a delicate necklace, yet observant individuals would invariably inquire, “Who is Muriel?” and “Why is she terrible?” Explaining the phrase’s origin often felt embarrassing, revealing an obsession with a 90s Australian cult-classic, a fan dedication bordering on excessive. It wasn’t the image I wished to project.
Years prior, my parents had introduced me to Muriel’s Wedding, a film they themselves deeply appreciated. However, this graduation present wasn’t adorned with profound Joni Mitchell lyrics or a line from literature offering solace during the uncertainties of adulthood. Instead, they opted for a lighthearted joke, a quirky one-liner, delivered with the gravity and elegance one might expect from a Jane Austen or Shakespearean declaration of love.
P.J. Hogan’s 1994 film, Muriel’s Wedding, mirrors this approach by elevating the Swedish pop sensation ABBA to a central role, positioning their music as the protagonist’s primary source of hope and escapism. Muriel Heslop (Toni Collette), a socially awkward 22-year-old confined to a dull Australian suburb, is defined by two fervent desires: ABBA and marriage. ABBA’s whimsical and catchy pop, often lingering on the fringes of mainstream “cool,” perfectly captures Muriel’s poignant longing for acceptance and love. ABBA’s appeal isn’t rooted in complex intellectual puzzles but in pure, unadulterated joy, celebration, and fun. Yet, woven into this euphoria are threads of loss, misunderstanding, and profound sadness. Even in the 90s, amidst ABBA’s resurgence sparked by their 1992 greatest hits compilation, their apparent simplicity was often dismissed. Carl Magnus Palm, author of ABBA: Bright Lights, Dark Shadows, noted that ABBA fans often faced ridicule. Unlike Beatles enthusiasts, who enjoyed universal acceptance, ABBA fans often felt compelled to conceal their admiration. In Muriel’s Wedding, the “cool girls” championed Nirvana and Baby Animals, leaving ABBA, and by extension Muriel, on the periphery.
“You’re enchained by your own sorrow
In your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow.”
– Chiquitita by ABBA
Thinking about Muriel, which happens more often than I anticipate, brings to mind her bursts of excitement in the most ordinary settings. These moments manifest physically: her usual slouch disappears as her shoulders rise towards her ears; a sometimes strained smile emerges, occasionally accompanied by a tongue peek and raised eyebrows. It’s her awkward attempt at charm, often interpreted by others as social ineptitude. This characteristic tone is established early in the film, when Muriel catches a bouquet at a wedding, and persists throughout: in her excited dinner conversations about partying with friends, her encounters with those now-ex-friends on vacation, meeting her future husband at swimming practice, and even at the altar, ready to say “I do.” Her enthusiasm is consistently met not with reciprocal warmth but with rejection.
While they effortlessly project a cool nonchalance alongside genuine joy, Muriel consistently falls short. Her intense desire for connection and validation overshadows any attempt to mask her yearning. Recognizing this vulnerability as one that inherently seeks privacy, I find myself uneasy watching it so openly displayed in Muriel’s body language. Each time, I worry if this exposed vulnerability is equally apparent in me. Am I as easily deciphered as Muriel? Like her, a persistent self-doubt circles within me, whispering negative thoughts about the possibility of never being fully understood or embraced. To avoid this downward spiral, I, like Muriel, turn to figures perceived as strong or “cool” enough to remain unfazed by such insecurities – for Muriel, this is ABBA.
“You listen to seventies music. This is the nineties!” The insult lands like a physical blow. Muriel listens silently as her “friends” dissect her flaws – laziness, anxiety – against the backdrop of cheesy tropical décor, reducing her emotions to mere set dressing, ripe for mockery. The music critique is the most cutting, more painful than attacks on her clothes, weight, or hair. The camera, previously static, moves in, focusing on Muriel, gradually excluding her tormentors from the frame. Muriel’s face flushes, tears well up, and her lip trembles as she admits, “I know I’m not normal, but I’m trying to change.”
Their judgment of her musical taste strikes at her deepest aspirations. Music is Muriel’s roadmap to a better life, an escape route to confidence and success. It embodies her ideal self. Crucially, it’s a refuge from crippling loneliness, achieved through a vacant stare and softly hummed lyrics, as the vibrant, celebratory sounds of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” fill the air. This disco declaration stands in for the joy she lacks, an ode to the happy, confident person she longs to be but fears she can never become.
Music, for both Muriel and myself, becomes a lifeline. Without the aspiration to embody the revered and celebrated “Dancing Queen,” we risk fading into insignificance. Our loneliness felt inescapable, so profound that we needed anthems to declare, “I’m not nothing!”
“You’ll be dancing once again
And the pain will end
You will have no time for grieving.”
– Chiquitita by ABBA
ABBA becomes Muriel’s calling, her sanctuary from self-loathing, mirroring the public’s dismissal of ABBA as serious artists. This public perception is a central theme in the film, interwoven with Muriel’s desperate pursuit of marriage, her friends’ betrayal, and her father’s hollow pride at his wife’s funeral when a prime ministerial condolence letter is read. Social standing becomes paramount; one must align with the “right” people, distancing oneself from those deemed inadequate. Life, for Muriel, is a game of social points, as Tania, one of the mean girls, explains: you stick with those “on your level.” Thus, when Muriel is finally chosen, ABBA’s brilliance accompanies this pivotal moment, reversing her prior rejections in a scene of immense satisfaction.
After impulsively using family savings for a Hibiscus Island vacation – the same resort where her ex-friends excluded her – she encounters Rhonda (Rachel Griffiths), another high school outcast, rekindling their friendship. The former “friends” invite Rhonda to join them, pointedly excluding Muriel. Rhonda, however, rejects them, exposing their infidelity and declaring she’d “rather swallow razor blades” than socialize with them. The camera work mirrors the earlier scene of Muriel’s rejection, swiveling to exclude the judgmental characters and focusing on their victim. This time, the effect is cathartic; the bullies are finally exposed. But the most triumphant moment is Rhonda’s sly smile as she announces, “By the way, I’m not alone. I’m with Muriel.”
The opening chords of ABBA’s “Waterloo” underscore the bullies’ stunned faces. Instantly, Muriel is victorious, validated, championed. Someone is finally on her side, an almost unbelievable reality. “Waterloo,” an anthem of triumph, transitions to Rhonda and Muriel in outlandish wigs and white costumes, a clear homage to ABBA’s theatrical style. Embodying the iconic figures Muriel had idolized, plastering their images across her bedroom walls, Muriel carries their uninhibited playfulness into her lip-sync performance, demonstrating her capacity for success.
The lyrics of success and love cease to be unattainable fantasies for Muriel; she is living them. This scene is unequivocally framed as a victory, supported by the song’s lyrics and historical context. “Waterloo” references Napoleon’s defeat in 1815, using it as a metaphor for surrendering to love. In Muriel’s narrative, the song foreshadows her internal battle against self-doubt and societal pressures. She ultimately learns to surrender to herself, embracing her true identity and rejecting external definitions of perfection and success. In this moment, she triumphs with “Waterloo,” mirroring ABBA’s 1974 Eurovision win with the song, setting both Muriel and her idols on paths of self-defined success and victory. Rhonda and Muriel lip-sync to the camera, their smiles radiant, inviting the audience to share in their joy, even as chaos erupts below stage among the discomfited “friends.”
Their shared adoration for ABBA unites them in their “otherness,” a common appreciation for something socially marginalized, forging a deep bond. Finding someone who not only understands your experiences but also shares your specific and profound interests is incredibly validating. Sharing a love for ABBA, as Muriel and Rhonda lie beneath the stars humming “Fernando,” reveals a new side of Muriel – happy, possessing the strength and self-possession to be vulnerable on her own terms.
“Chiquitita, tell me the truth
There is no way you can deny it
I see that you’re oh, so sad, so quiet.”
– Chiquitita by ABBA
Secretly, I hope that all obsessions, whether musical or cinematic, eventually lead to a shedding of reliance on escapist distractions, like outgrowing a protective layer. While Muriel claims that in Sydney she hasn’t “listened to one ABBA song” because her “life is as good as an ABBA song” – even “as good as ‘Dancing Queen’” – lies continue to tumble from her lips as effortlessly as dropped pencils. There’s a hurried quality to her pronouncements – her marriage to Tim Simms, her denial of being Muriel Heslop – as if she hopes these fabrications will solidify into truth.
Her façade of happiness, which briefly approached genuine bliss, crumbles. She remains trapped by societal ideals of success, defined by those who initially excluded her. “Dancing Queen,” the song she believed her life had surpassed, resurfaces as a distraction from her strained friendship and sham marriage. She inserts the cassette into her bubblegum pink player, humming along distantly while gazing blankly into the mirror.
Muriel’s priorities are misaligned, much like mine often are. She’s obsessed with escaping herself rather than the power of others’ judgments. ABBA holds the key to what Muriel desires, but she’s blinded by societal expectations to recognize it. ABBA embodies Muriel’s superheroes; they disregard fashion trends and public opinion. They are indifferent to fitting neatly into pop, rock, or disco categories. In fact, ABBA’s iconic costumes were partly a financial strategy, tax-deductible if deemed too eccentric for street wear. Muriel craves this freedom, this nonchalance. ABBA, in their image, lyrics, and reputation, represents the liberation society withholds from her if she seeks acceptance.
I believe this is the core of my years-long fascination with the film. If I could learn from her journey without replicating her deceit and missteps – if her story could serve as a cautionary tale with a positive outcome – I could achieve a greater sense of freedom.
“Try once more, like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita”
– Chiquitita by ABBA
Muriel’s Wedding didn’t offer an immediate shift in perspective. It wasn’t a moment of instant recognition or transformation. Instead, it was a gradual comfort, akin to discovering a favorite band. Familiarity with a band’s discography develops over time, their music eventually coloring life’s experiences. The music evolves, its meaning deepening with each life stage. I found myself turning to Muriel’s Wedding as a comfort film, a choice often met with incomprehension. “That movie is so depressing,” people would say. “The mom commits suicide, it’s not uplifting.” I lacked a coherent explanation then, unable to articulate why it resonated. This inexplicability bothered me, prompting a search for answers, which paradoxically emerged when I wasn’t actively seeking them. During a period of intense depression, amidst uncontrollable sobbing, I realized I was no different from Muriel in her raw grief, her desperate internal cry of “I’m not nothing” echoing powerfully in my mind. This realization was paralyzing.
Muriel wasn’t my comfort, but my fear personified: a liar, a disappointment, a loner, trapped with toxic friends, detached from reality, living in hopeful delusions, utterly rejected. The potential to follow her path unknowingly became my greatest fear, a reality alarmingly close if I wasn’t vigilant.
Acknowledging this fear allowed me to reframe Muriel as my superhero. She triumphs. The status quo fails. Romance fails. Suburbia fails. Conformity fails. Traditional, restrictive structures collapse. Even the film’s genre, initially hinting at romantic comedy, subverts expectations. Muriel could have easily fallen for David, her swimmer husband, or found solace with the video store clerk, a kindred spirit in awkwardness. The most conventionally “noble” path would have been returning home to assume her mother’s role. Instead, she takes a radical step: moving to the city with her best friend. Freedom and individuality prevail.
She leaves on her own terms, rejecting societal definitions of success and perfection, waving goodbye to the suffocating expectations, shouting “goodbye Porpoise Spit!” as ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” becomes her victory anthem. Muriel wins because she finally understands that “Dancing Queen” isn’t a title bestowed by others; it’s a crown to be seized. She claims it herself, overthrowing the oppressive forces that confined her, forging her own path, finally granting herself permission to disregard external judgments.
My parents’ gift of the “You’re Terrible, Muriel” locket, without explicit explanation, was insightful. Like a symbolic tattoo, they intended it to solidify my passions and interests, free from external influence. They recognized that I should aspire to Muriel’s ultimate self-acceptance, understanding her journey, however flawed, was a guide, no matter how unconventional, when I myself couldn’t see it. The silver oval inscribed “You’re Terrible, Muriel” truly proclaims, “Embrace what resonates deeply and authentically with you. Disregard the rest.”
